


gold-dust

by besidethesea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Auror Harry Potter, Corruption, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Elf Draco Malfoy, Elf magic, Elves, France (Country), Hidden Worlds, Kings & Queens, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Prince Draco Malfoy, Princes & Princesses, Revenge, Soldier Harry Potter, Step-parents, War with Grindelwald, World War II, You'll see what I mean eventually, a lot of changes have been made, and about a dozen other languages, inspiration from tolkien and atlantis, or at least my sad attempt at politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-05-16 03:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19309309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besidethesea/pseuds/besidethesea
Summary: The year is 1943.Draco is the prince of a hidden elven kingdom in the French Pyrénées; Harry is a British Auror turned soldier in the war against Grindelwald.Together, they may bring peace to each of their worlds.Or, they may be each others’ downfall.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the poem "All in June" by W.H. Davies, a couple of his poems have proven particularly inspirational to this story so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off we go!

_A week ago I had a fire_  
_To warm my feet, my hands and face;_  
_Cold winds, that never make a friend,_  
_Crept in and out of every place._

  
_Today the fields are rich in grass,_  
_And buttercups in thousands grow;_  
_I'll show the world where I have been--_  
_With gold-dust seen on either shoe._

  
_Till to my garden back I come,_  
_Where bumble-bees for hours and hours_  
_Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,_  
_To wriggle out of hollow flowers._

 

_\- W.H. Davies_

 

* * *

 

 When the wards shatter, Draco is riding Devereaux high above the valley, the great Granian’s wings beating fiercely to keep them adrift in the buffeting winds that follow the intrusion. A web of fear immediately spreads out from his chest throughout the rest of his body; no living being, other than his brethren elves, should be able to get through the valleys wards. And an explosion such as the one that just occurred proves that this being is no elf. When he casts his gaze to the land below him, he can already see his fellow members of the Elven Guard rushing towards the eastern ridge of the valley and he is quick to direct Devereaux towards them. His father would be furious to know his only son were hurtling himself towards potential danger, but he should already have been accustomed to that due to Draco’s long standing in the Guard. He will not be an idle prince; he will help his people in whatever way he can.

  
“Your Highness,” one of the elves, a male, greets upon Draco’s landing. He wears the standard uniform of the Elven Guard, white linen trousers and a blue silk waistcoat with silver embroidery along the breast and sleeves. The lavender sash around his waist proclaims him to be a Commandant. “There has been a breech upon the wards.”

  
Draco rolls his eyes at the pointless information. Every elf in the valley, royal or not, would have felt that intrusion upon their land. Instead, he nods and grips Devereaux’s mane tighter. “Take me to the breech,” he commands and, seeing the hesitation in the Guards expression, hardens his voice into one of Royal Command. “At once, Commandant.”

  
The Commandant exchanges looks with his companions, other lower ranking members of the Guard, before turning back to Draco and acquiescing. “Yes, Your Highness, follow me.”

  
They fly over the small river that runs through the valley, towards the wood that spreads from the eastern to the western edges of the valley and out past the wards. From their height, he can just make out his people coming out of their homes to watch the small group of the Guard making their way towards the breech and, though he knows it may be too far for even the most keen of eyes to see, he raises a hand in greeting. He can’t help the frisson of fear that has spread through him at the thought of his peoples’ safety. He’s never known there to be a breech in the valley’s wards, not since his father demanded their fortification after his mothers’ death when he was five. So, so many years ago now. Their small kingdom has been built and flourished on peace for so long, that he’s afraid at what the threat of war would do to them; the _trésor elfes_ were never known for their ferocity in battle, they had no need. If a war were to come to them, they would stand no chance.

  
Not that they wouldn’t try, Draco amends. What they lack in ferocity they make up for two-fold with their prowess for cunning and strategy. They would hold their own long enough for an evacuation, but that is all.

  
The forest below them thins out and gives way to a body of water, the Lac Oublié, its surface shimmering like starlight in the morning sun, and the troop lowers their winged-horses towards the ground. A lone, still, figure lays at the bank of the lake in a heap of vermilion robes not that unlike the ones Draco has seen the elves of the Swiss Alps wear during their diplomatic visits to the valley. But these, he knows, are different. Draco is the first of the group to dismount, beads of perspiration forming at the nape of his neck underneath his plaited silver hair. The robes he wears to demonstrate his power and standing amongst the elves, light blue silk trousers and tunic, and a heavy but breathable white robe made of the softest sheepskin, sit uncomfortably on his frame for the first time in Draco’s life. He is scared, pure and simple, of this unknown figure and unsettled in the fear it brings out in him.

  
For the first time in his long life, Draco feels undeserving of the circlet resting upon his head.

  
As the other elves dismount, Draco draws his sword from his sheath and approaches the figure slowly, cautiously. It would not do to have the only heir to the throne be brought down by his own foolishness. The other elves follow his lead, ready to jump in if need be, and still Draco tiptoes closer. The figure is male, that much is clear, with dark skin and even darker hair, windswept and brushed back from his face from his fall, most likely. In addition to the bright red robes, he wears heavy leather boots from an unknown creature and dark trousers. A black jacket with silver fastenings is open slightly to show a white undershirt and red braces and, under those, a patch of dark chest hair. Draco’s heart stutters, because the man would be quite beautiful, if it weren’t for the three wooden objects surrounding him. Split in two, its bristles hacked and twisted this way and that, underneath the mans’ unnaturally bent legs, is what Draco knows to be a broomstick. And, a few feet away from the mans’ outstretched right hand, a thin strip of wood that is unmistakably a wand. This man is a wizard and he is the first in over a hundred years to be within the _trésor elfes_ territory.

  
Draco steps back, the grip on his sword nearly painful, and addresses the Commandant with a voice of stone. “Take him to the Healers,” he commands, sheathing his weapon and turning back to Devereaux. “I will alert the king that a wizard walks among us once more.”

  
And, ignoring the panicked fray of movement his announcement has made, Draco and Devereaux take off into the sky.

  
**& &&**

  
The only strong memory Draco has of his mother is of her laughing, a crown of pink begonias woven into her hair, as the two of them lounge in the shade of the Royal Meadow. Draco was four, still an infant by elven standards, and unaware of the fact that the place his mother came from, the people she spoke so softly and fondly of, would soon be her undoing.

  
**& &&**

  
Draco’s father, the King Lucius Abraxas of the Valley of Moonlight, is sitting on his throne when Draco enters. To his left, Draco’s step-mother, Her Majesty the Queen Marceline sat keen-eyed and dressed in the finest of purple silks; her dark hair was plaited elaborately around the crown upon her head, made of polished bone from a young doe and the purest silver of the _trésor elfes_ mines. At its center, the queens personal moonstone shimmered impressively. The Greeting Hall is an expansive room with high ceilings and stained glass windows that let the light from the rising sun in, dappling every which way and making everything appear to be sparkling. Everything is made of marble; the floors, the walls, and even the three thrones that lay at the end of the Hall. When he was younger, only just beginning his lessons as heir to the kingdom, Draco used to love sitting to his fathers’ right and watch the way the subjects would look upon them; with the sun shining down on them, the elven royals looked like ethereal beings.

  
Lucius watches Draco approach with an almost bored look upon his unnaturally pale face, the only show of emotion the way he grips just a tad tighter to the silver scepter in his right hand, its moonstone tip gleaming and casting rainbows about the room. Draco kneels before his father and keeps his gaze to the floor. “My king, I am afraid I have grave news.”

  
The kings’ scepter clanks gently on the floor as he adjusts his seat. “Speak, my son,” he says, his high voice thin and on the verge of weakness. The mysterious illness that had befallen the king years ago was still a subject of much concern around the valley. Many wondered if it was contagious and if soon their valley would be stricken with illness and filled with the fallen.

  
Rising to his feet once more, Draco put one hand behind his back in a sign of respect and kept the other positioned leisurely on his sword. Always prepared. “I’m sure you felt the intrusion upon our wards, father,” he begins, watching the impatient way King Lucius nods his regal head. “A few of my fellow Elven Guards and I traveled to the eastern edge, to the bank of Lac Oublié, and what we discovered there is quite unsettling.” At this, Draco licks his lips and lets the first vestiges of his apprehension show. “Father, the intrusion was caused by a wizard.”

  
The reaction is immediate. Every servant and Royal Guard that lingers in the background of the Greeting Hall inhale as one, a young maiden even let loose a squeal of fright and dropped a glass jug of wine, causing its contents to spill across the floor in a close approximation of a puddle of blood. “Nonsense!” Queen Marceline cries, sitting forward in her throne and resting a delicate hand on the kings’ tensed shoulder. “There hasn’t been a wizard in the Valley of Moonlight for over a hundred years! Speak the truth, Draco!”

  
Draco pushes back the annoyance rising in the back of his throat. Marceline has always had a bad habit of treating him like an child. “I’m afraid I am, Mother,” he replies. “I have ordered the Guards that accompanied me to take the wizard to our Healers, for he was badly injured during his entry of our land. I come to ask the King if he would prefer I handle the overseeing of the prisoner.”

  
For the first time in a long time, King Lucius looks upon his son with sympathetic eyes. “Are you sure that is wise, my son?”

  
Draco bows his head in acknowledgment. “I shall not let the past cloud my judgment, Father, I promise you this.”

  
“Very well,” the King relents. “You have my permission, Draco. Anything you need in regards to the treatment of the prisoner is yours, you need only request.”

  
The prince takes his hand away from his sword and waves it out in a arc before him from his left shoulder until his right arm is in a straight line before him, the traditional elven salute. “Thank you, Father.”

  
And then he leaves the Greeting Hall, the King and Queens’ eyes following him every step of the way, to set out towards the Healing Well and the mysterious wizard being kept there.

  
**& &&**

  
Harry awakes to pain beyond compare shooting every direction throughout his body. He jerks up from the cot he lays on with a yelp, immediately coaxed back by gentle hands and soothing, musical voices. He opens his eyes to see three beautiful beings hovering over him, their features sharp and angelic all at once. Two are female and one appears to be male, although they all have long flowing hair so Harry can’t be sure. He goes to sit up again, panicking, because if he’s grounded then there’s a possibility that Severus is too. The two of them had been scoping out a group of Grindelwald’s supporters, camping at the base of the mountain and conversing loudly about the Muggle village not too far off. He and Severus had just begun to head back to their own camp, where the rest of Harry’s squad of Aurors were waiting, when he had collided with an unseen force and quickly blacked out. One of Grindelwalds’ men must have spotted them and hit Harry with something, there was no other explanation. Before he can get too far from the cot, however, he’s quickly greeted by the sharp end of a sword and a harsh command in a foreign language.

  
Harry looks up and his vision is met by a man. He is tall, probably a good foot taller than Harry himself, with long silver hair plaited down his back, and a silver circlet resting on his head. His face is boyish, just on the cusp of manhood, with a slightly pointed chin, full lips, and light grey eyes. At the base of his throat rests a pendant of some sort of stone. He’s definitely one of the most attractive men Harry’s ever seen, the effect not even dampened by the obvious disgust in his expression, the slight upward curl to his lips. _“Parlez-vous Français? Wie wäre es mit Deutsch? Italiano?”_ The man asks, his voice rich and smooth like honey. He tilts his head to the side slightly, his grip never slacking on the sword to Harry’s throat. “ _Non?_ Maybe English, then?”

  
“Yeah,” Harry rasps, unable to control the smirk that appears on his lips at the sound of the mans’ haughty tone. “You’re on the beam there, mate. Where am I?”

  
The mans’ eyes narrow. “I believe I will be asking the questions here, wizard,” he snipes, edging the tip of the sword just a tad closer so that it barely nicks Harry’s skin. He can feel the cool metal against the heat of him and keeps in mind to take short breaths. “What’s your name?”

  
“Harry Potter,” he answers, licking his cracked lips. “I’m an Auror for the British Ministry of Magic. What’s yours, doll face?”

  
Someone in the small group behind the man smothers a surprised laugh and Harry watches with poorly hidden glee as the mans’ eye twitches. One of the beings who held Harry down, the man, makes a noise of offense. “How dare you speak to the prince that way, wizard!”

  
Harry frowns. “There is no prince of France.”

  
“Silence,” the man with the sword says. “I am Prince Draco Lucius of the Valley of Moonlight, the greatest of the last Seven Elven Kingdoms. What did you come here for, Harry Potter? How did you get through our valleys wards?”

  
_Wards_. Well, that explains the unseen force Harry knocked into and why every bone in his body feels like its completely shattered. Which. “I don’t know and, believe me when I say, I didn’t come here on purpose. How bad off am I?” He takes quick stock of himself. “I can’t feel my legs.”

  
“That would be because you broke both of them,” Prince Draco replies, finally putting away his sword with a huff. “You also shattered your collarbone, broke several ribs, fractured a wrist and yet, managed not to get a single scratch on that abnormally large head of yours.”

  
“Careful,” Harry teases halfheartedly. “You almost sound like you care.”

  
A muscle in the prince’s jaw ticks and he ignores that comment to turn towards one of the Healers, a dark-haired female elf with luminescent blue eyes. “Is he well enough to be moved?”

  
The woman quirks a brow. “He’s broken nearly every limb he possesses, Brother, at least give the Well a night or two before you drag him off to the Hold.”

  
Harry watches their silent exchange with growing discomfort, blinking his eyes heavily as the effort to hold them open grows. “As enlightening as this familial quarrel is, I am injured and therefore in quite a bit of pain.” He locks eyes with the prince, ignoring the fury he can see growing in the grey depths. “I’ll be happy to play prisoner to you once I’m well again, Your Highness, but until then—”

  
He doesn’t even get the rest of the snarky response out; between one breath and the next, he’s laying comatose in the cot once more.

  
Draco looks upon the wizard with contempt as the other two Healers, Helene and Etienne, rush back to the Well for his next dose of medicine. His older half-sister, Aveline, the last of the three Healers, comes to stand beside him. “He is an injured man before anything else, _mon petit caneton_ ,” she says, smiling sweetly at the exasperated huff Draco releases at the use of the age-old endearment.

  
“He is a wizard, Aveline,” he corrects, looking away from the unconscious man and to his favorite sister. “And you above all know how much I loath them.”

  
Sympathy shows from her deep blue eyes and she reaches out to rest a gentle, Healing, hand on his shoulder. “Just keep in mind that he is only one of many, Brother,” she whispers, before joining her fellow Healers at the Well.

  
Draco considers her words and looks to the wizard, barely able to strike down a doe in his condition, before he turns to his men and waves them towards the exit. The Healing Well is no place for violence or harshness and Draco is somewhat abashed at having let his emotions get away with him. He follows his men out of the room, letting the steady trickling of the Well be cut off by the solid oak doors behind them. He then turns to the Commandant who brought the wizard Harry Potter to the Well earlier. “I want these doors guarded day and night,” he orders, gripping tight to the hilt of his sword. “No matter his injuries, I do not trust that wizard. Report any curiosities to me immediately, understood?”

  
“Yes, Your Highness,” the Commandant replies and then Draco leaves to retire to his rooms.

  
**& &&**

  
When he dreams that night, tossing uneasily in the furs and silks of his bed, Draco dreams of his mother. Of her soft blonde hair, her grey eyes so like his, sparkling like starlight, and of her laugh echoing through the woods surrounding the Royal Meadow. Somehow, the dream feels like a warning when Draco awakes the next morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took longer than I intended, because I am lazy and have spent most of my time recently playing The Sims, but here it finally is! Thank you for waiting patiently!

The Healing Well reminds Harry quite a bit of the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. Both are high-ceilinged rooms filled with multiple cots and the smell of herbs. The only obvious difference between the two is that the Healing Well is a windowless room, the Healing Well itself taking up the far wall, which looks to be cut out of the side of a mountain. It’s a large pool of slightly luminescent water, which is filled by a small waterfall, most likely from an underwater stream, coming from the stone wall. Whereas the Hogwarts Hospital Wing would be filled with Madame Pomfrey and seventh-year volunteers, all the Healers in the Well appear to be adults. Harry spots the three elves who Healed him yesterday, one of which he remembers is, in fact, the princess of this strange land he’s found himself in. He feels much better today than he did when he awoke yesterday, his arm completely Healed and his collarbone and legs only marginally sore. The Healer who brought him breakfast (a tray of fruit, cheese, dried meats, and bread and lord he could use a good cup of joe right about now) informed him that Harry should stay off his legs for at least another day or two to give them enough time to fully Heal without complications. Harry didn’t protest; he’s not exactly sure how far he could get if he made to walk anyway, what with the guards positioned outside the Healing Well doors.

 

He’s seen them, dressed in their fancy blue silk waistcoats and white sashes (evidently they state the elves rank) tied around their waists, every time a Healer comes or goes from the room. If the prince thinks he can scare Harry with a few armed elves, though, he’s got another thing coming. Harry defeated the second Darkest wizard of all time at the ripe age of seventeen; very little scares him any longer.

 

Harry is startled from his observation of the elaborate carvings on the oak doors (a pattern that closely resembles a Celtic knot) by one of the Healers from the day before, the Princess, steps forward. “Harry Potter,” she begins, smiling kindly. “How is your breakfast? Is everything to your liking?”

 

He smiles back at her and sits aside his breakfast tray; all that remains are a few crumbs from the bread. “Yes, everything was wonderful. Thank you, Your Highness.”

 

“Please, Harry Potter,” the princess says, handing off the tray to a passing Healer to dispose of. “Here in the Well I am known as Healer Aveline, you are welcome to address me as such.”

 

Harry nods in acknowledgment. “Very well, Healer Aveline. Please, call me Harry. Er, and pardon me for asking, but. You are Prince Draco’s sister, yes? You two don’t look that much alike.”

 

Healer Aveline sighs and takes a seat on the edge of Harry’s bed, smoothing the light green linen dress she wears underneath her. “Draco is the youngest of the five of us,” she begins. “And the only boy. He is our half-brother, from our Father the King, and heir-apparent to the throne.”

 

“That’s allowed?” Harry asks, confused. In England a bastard is a bastard, royal blood be damned.

 

Healer Aveline hesitated, before nodding. “The Court made an exception, regarding the circumstances. How are you feeling today, Harry?”

 

Recognizing the subject change for what it is and deciding that he’ll have to try and drag more information out of someone else at a later date, Harry smooths the blankets over his lap. “I feel wonderful, Healer, thank you. Your Well is quite an impressive bit of magic, I’ll admit. I never feel this rejuvenated after a dose of Skele-Gro. A potion,” he explains, seeing the curious look in her eyes. “It mends and regrows bones when you’ve broken or lost them.”

 

“Lost them?” Healer Aveline exclaims, looking quite shocked.

 

Harry laughs, remembering the Quidditch fiasco of his second-year all over again. He massages his right arm. “Quite a nasty business, regrowing bones. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

 

Healer Aveline smiles. “I’ll be sure to spread the message.” She stands up from his bed and busies herself with straightening her dress. “Now, my brother wished for me to inform him as soon as you were well enough to be taken from the Well.” She eyes Harry wryly. “But, I am a Healer before anything else, Harry, and will only inform him when you are ready.”

 

“I appreciate that,” Harry replies, and then sighs. “But the sooner I get it over with the better.” He pushes the blankets of his cot back and tentatively swings his legs over the side, Healer Aveline watching his every move. Pins and needles begin to shoot up his toes as soon as he starts putting weight on his feet and he winces. “Don’t s’pose you elves have wheelchairs, do you?”

 

Healer Aveline gives him a sympathetic look and shakes her head. “Elven bones are much sturdier and quicker to heal,” she explains. “But I can get you a pair of crutches, if you’d like?”

 

“Yes, please, that’d be wonderful.”

 

She nods. “Very well. Wait right here and, after, I will personally escort you to see the prince.”

 

Harry watches her go with aching feet and a mild sense of trepidation.

 

**& &&**

 

Draco relaxes back into his seat at the Meeting table and accepts the flute of champagne the servant hands him. Across from him sits the General of the Elven Guard, Durand, who nurses his own drink. A model of the valley takes up the entire length of the table, a shimmering lavender dome surrounding it identical to the transparent wards far above them. A yellow, pulsating section in the eastern corner represents the spot where the wizard Harry Potter burst through. “What’s the status on the repairs, General?” Draco asks Durand, sipping his champagne. “How long do your men predict the restoration of the eastern wards will take?”

 

“A fortnight, at the most, Your Highness,” Durand replies, laying his glass down to lean forward and take a better look at the model himself. “The valley’s wards are a very complex magic and must be applied carefully. We want to be as delicate as possible, as to ensure they will not fail us again.”

 

Draco nods. “Very good, General. Thank you. And is there any evidence in the signature of the wards to tell us how, exactly, Mr. Potter broke through?”

 

Durand looks troubled as he meets the princes’ eyes. “None at all, Your Highness. It is very strange and, frankly, quite concerning.”

 

“Indeed,” Draco agrees and before he can continue a knock is heard at the door. One of the guards opens it to show his sister, the Princess Healer Aveline and, just behind her, Harry Potter supported on a pair of ash crutches. “Sister, you have impeccable timing. Thank you for accompanying the wizard.”

 

The two of them enter the Meeting chamber and stride towards the table, Aveline staying beside Harry Potter to offer him support should he require it. At Draco’s words, the brunette looks up from observing the model and shows the first signs of irritation Draco has seen from him. “It’s Harry; or Auror Potter, if you must.”

 

Draco stands from the table, rounding it to pull out a chair for Aveline, who takes it after a moments hesitation. All the while, he maintains eye contact with Harry Potter. “Very well, Auror Potter. Would you mind telling the occupants of this room what, exactly, an auror is? I’m afraid we’re a bit lax on our teaching of wizarding professions, you see.”

 

Auror Potter’s thick brows narrow at the subtle barb and Draco watches with satisfaction as the man takes in the many uniformed Guards dotted throughout the chamber, swords dangling from their belts and bows peeking from over their shoulders. Better to be armed and prepared, Draco thinks, when up against a foreign opponent. Green eyes come back to meet the princes’. “Certainly,” he begins, as if speaking to a small child. Draco scowls. “An auror is much like your Elven Guard, Your Highness. We are hired to protect and serve the citizens of Wizarding Britain, against foes of all types.”

 

A sudden heavy sigh from Princess Aveline startles both men from their mutual glaring. Draco looks down at his sister to see her leaning towards the model of the valley. “All this not-quite subtle verbal sparring is giving me a headache,” she says. “Now, won’t you two sit down so that we can begin discussing the matters at hand?”

 

Draco resists the urge to sputter, instead just huffs heavily through his nose before striding back to his seat. Auror Potter accepts the seat that Aveline pulls out for them and then the small group around the table is silent while the prince composes himself. “What we have here, Auror Potter,” Draco finally begins, fingering the stem of his glass delicately. “Is quite the conundrum. You see, no one besides an elf should be able to get through the wards over the Valley of Moonlight. My father made it so more than a hundred years ago, to protect our people.” He looks up to meet the other mans’ green eyes, seeing the curiosity and intrigue barely hidden in their depths. Draco pushes aside his glass and leans forward to steeple his hands before him, matching the gaze. “So you understand our confusion and… _apprehension_ in regards to your arrival in our land.”

 

“I didn’t come here on purpose,” Auror Potter rushes to say, looking every bit as frustrated and annoyed as Draco feels. “It just…sort of happened?”

 

Draco and General Durand exchange looks before the General directs the groups attention towards the yellow outline of the models’ wards. “What you see before you, Auror Potter, is the aftermath of what you say _‘just sort of happened’_. Quite the amount of damage; my Guards will have their work cut out for them whilst repairing.”

 

“I can help repair the wards,” Auror Potter replies, surprising even Aveline, who whips her head around to stare at him incredulously. The man notices. “During my training for the Auror Corps I had to study wards intensively,” he explains. “If you wanted, I could help your Guards repair the wards. My knowledge may be different and, in addition, more beneficial to the overall stability of the wards afterwords.”

 

A part of Draco, quite a big part, wants to reject Auror Potter’s proposal; but the more logical side of himself understands the need for strong wards to keep his people safe. If Auror Potter contributing to the restoration of the wards keeps the elves of the Valley of Moonlight safe, then Draco will readily agree. He sighs in weary acceptance. “Very well, Auror Potter. You shall spend the next few weeks here in the valley finishing your Healing and helping repair the eastern wards. But don’t think for a second that you are a free man.” Draco narrows his eyes in warning, feeling satisfaction curl through his veins when the Aurors’ throat bobs in a nervous swallow. “Any _hint_ of nefarious plots and I will have you executed faster than you can say Quidditch.”

 

Auror Potter’s eyes narrow in return. “I thought you said you elves didn’t know anything about wizards.”

 

Draco smirks and grasps the stem of his champagne flute elegantly between two fingers. “I lied.” And he tips the rest of the contents down his throat, jubilation at Auror Potter’s surprise bursting throughout him like the bubbles on his tongue.

 

**& &&**

 

“Your brother,” Harry begins as he and Healer Aveline make their way down the hall from the Meeting chamber. Years of Quidditch and Auror training make it so that he barely pants while pushing himself forward on the crutches the Healer provided for him. The brunette turns to him with an amused smirk on her face as Harry continues. “Is a bit of a berk.”

 

“Draco,” Healer Aveline sighs, rubbing the silky fabric of her skirt between two fingers. “Has his charms. It’s just your unfortunate luck that you are a wizard and there is nothing in this world that he hates more the wizards.” She contemplates for a moment. “Well, besides peacocks, that is.”

 

Harry snorts. “Peacocks? Why peacocks?”

 

“Our father, the King, kept a flock of albino peacocks as palace pets when we were young,” she explains, smiling fondly. “They loved to torment Draco the most; chased him about the palace grounds until he’d hid behind Narcissa’s skirts. They were quite afraid of her.”

 

Harry slows to a stop, eying Healer Aveline, who stops a few steps away and turns to him, with curiosity. “Who’s Narcissa?”

 

She sighs and motions him forward and he comes cautiously; they begin their journey through the palace once more. “Narcissa was Draco’s mother,” Healer Aveline finally says, after a few moments where the only sound to be heard is their footsteps on the flagstones. “She was murdered many years ago, when Draco was just a babe.”

 

Harry stops once more, the truth dawning on him. “By wizards.”

 

Sorrowful eyes look his way, all the answer he needs. “Yes, by wizards. Now,” she takes a breath and carries on like she hasn’t just dropped this information on Harry’s head all of a sudden. “Let’s find you a lodging, shall we?”

 

They meet very few people through the rest of the palace, most of the servants taking their own paths about the place and the Elven Guard tending to the wards and services of the valley. Harry admires the many velvet tapestries hanging on the carved stone walls, the thin veins of moonstone reflecting the torch-light and scattering rainbows throughout the halls. When they reach the palace doors, Harry is surprised to see they’re made of beech wood and covered in elegant vine carvings. Two floor to ceiling windows made of stained glass portray two elven knights, one with a raised sword and the other with a notched bow. These too cast rainbows upon the floor with the midday sunlight. Still, their beauty is nothing compared to the sight of what lays beyond the palace doors.

 

The valley is sprawling and green, trees and other types of vegetation everywhere you look. The front path, made of the same stone that lines the palace floors, is lined by giant willow trees and statues of past Elven Kings. In the further distance, where the valley rises towards the mountains, beautiful stone and wooden huts make up the main village of the elves, a glittering river running straight through it. It’s, by far, one of the most breathtaking sights that Harry has ever seen. “Welcome to _vallée du clair de lune_ , Harry,” Healer Aveline says lightly, before leading him gently down the path.

 

“I can’t believe all of this has been here all this time,” Harry begins, practically skipping on his crutches to keep up with Healer Aveline. “And none of us were the wiser.”

 

“We did not wish for you to know,” she replies.

 

“Where am I to stay, while I’m here?”

 

“My brother made it quite clear that he does not trust you, Harry,” Healer Aveline states blandly. “And much of the kingdom feels the same; so, I believe it would be in the best interests of all parties involved if you were to stay with a member of our Elven Guard.”

Harry shoots her a wry look. “And this Guard has agreed to that?”

 

She replies with a mischievous smirk.

 

The man who opens the door of the hut, one of many that Harry and Healer Aveline could see from the palace steps, is different in many ways to the other elves that Harry has seen so far. For one, he is dark-skinned and his hair is shaved close to his head; for another, his partially exposed chest is covered in myriad of scars and black ink. Harry thought the elves almost impervious to any kind of physical blemish. When the elf catches sight of the pair of them, he looks from Harry, to Healer Aveline, and back twice more, before speaking. “No, no, absolutely not.” His voice is deep and monotone, but the fury there is unmistakable.

 

“Blaise, really now,” Healer Aveline chastises. “You haven’t even heard what I have to say.”

 

The man, Blaise, crosses his obscenely toned arms across his marred chest. Harry does his best not to fall faint upon the mans’ doorstep; first impressions and all. “Aveline, don’t insult my intelligence, please. As if the entire valley isn’t discussing his presence. I won’t play nursemaid to _scum_ like him.”

 

“And here I’ve been perfectly polite,” Harry mutters, before grunting in pain at the sharp elbow Healer Aveline sends into his solar plexus.

 

“He’s only staying until the wards have been mended,” she says. “And you’d be doing a tremendous favor to the crown, Blaise. I would make sure that my father repays you handsomely. Perhaps with a diplomatic voyage to the Forge?”

 

At this, Blaise pauses. Harry can tell that the elf is torn between his obvious loathing of Harry—which, rude—and his desire to go to this so-called _Forge_. Finally, he sighs and lets his great arms hang back at his sides, stepping out of the way of the entrance. “You don’t play fair, Your Highness.”

 

She pats his chest as she passes him by. “No battle has ever been won by playing fair.”

 

Harry, as he crutches his way inside the hut under Blaises’ careful eye, quietly thinks that she has a point.

 

**& &&**

 

“Again!” Draco’s instructor cries as he steps back from the wooden dummy and wrenches his sword from the grains.

 

The prince wipes his brow and tucks a strand of platinum hair that has escaped his plait back behind one pointed ear. “Can we not take a break, Hector?” He pleads.

 

The old elf, older than even the king himself and yet still with a head full of flaming hair, harrumphs and shoves the dummy back towards Draco; the prince quickly sidesteps in order to avoid it and raises a thin brow the instructors way. “There are no breaks in war, boy,” Hector scolds, snapping his fingers impatiently. “Now, go again.”

 

When he took up his position within the elven guard nearly eighty years before, Draco had agreed wholeheartedly to his fathers’ condition that he participate in rounds of vigorous training with the valley’s best swordsman. In his prime, Hector had been a formidable soldier of the Elven Guard and had served his kingdom valiantly until his sight had been damaged by an enemies flaming arrow. Now, completely blind in one eye and partially blind in the other, he spends his days griping and hollering at Draco until his voice goes hoarse. Thankfully, he’s saved from having to go again by the door opening and the Commandant entering the room. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness.” He bows his head slightly before continuing on. “But, Her Majesty the Queen has requested your presence in the Princess Apolline’s Chamber.”

 

Draco hands off his practice sword to a quietly stewing Hector, a frisson of concern going through him at this news. Queen Marceline never wishes to be accompanied in her oldest daughters chamber. Many years ago, Princess Apolline had fallen into a mysterious sleep, the Healers unable to wake her in any way; it was the main reason why Princess Aveline had set her sights on Healing. “Until tomorrow, Hector,” Draco says now, nodding to the old elf before he follows the Commandant out of the room. Princess Apolline’s Chamber is deep within the castle, built completely within the mountain to offer the most protection, and the only ones who ever enter are the Queen herself and servants who tend to the princess. Occasionally, Draco’s other sisters, Aurorette and Aurelie, will visit; Aveline, when she is not busy in the Healing Well, spends quite a bit of time trying to find a cure. Draco has only been in the chamber once before, when the princess had first fallen asleep. He’d been very young and still feeling the sharp loss of his mother, so his memory is hazy at best.

 

Now, as he enters the Chamber at the Commandant’s urging, he finds himself taken aback by the pure beauty of the place. Instead of dreary, the room is bright and vibrant with the feeling of life. Candles are spread everywhere; sitting behind stained glass murals of flowers and elven legends to scatter even more light throughout the chamber. Apolline is laid out on a bed of the softest linens, drapes of gauzy fabric shrouding her from the harshest of the light, supposedly to ease her eyes when she awakes. Queen Marceline is sat at the head of the bed, carefully brushing out her daughters’ dark hair and singing a lullaby under her breath. At the sound of the Draco entering, she looks up once and smiles. “Draco,” she says softly. “Come, please.”

 

He approaches cautiously, all too aware of Apolline’s slumbering figure and how long it has been since he’s seen her in person. She looks just the same; dark, hair spread out on her pillows, pale skin glowing softly in the candlelight, her chest rising and falling gently under folded hands. It looks as if she could rise any moment, blink open her grey eyes and turn to him with a smile. _“Mon petit caneton, what is with the sad eyes?”_

 

Draco swallows back the emotion rising within him and places his hands behind his back, turning to Queen Marceline. “You called for me, Mother.”

 

The queen sets the silver brush aside and smooths her hand over Apolline’s forehead. “Yes,” she replies, standing from her chair and adjusting her skirts before approaching the prince. She takes his face in her two cool hands and looks him deep in the eyes. “I wanted to know how you are doing, child, with the wizards presence.”

 

“I’m doing well,” he says. “I’ve been informed that he’s staying with the Elven Guard Blaise Zabini and is quite invested in his work on the valley’s wards.”

 

Queen Marceline smiles gently and brushes her thumb across Draco’s cheekbones. “Draco, I may not have brought you into this world, but I have loved you dearly for your entire life. I know you so well, child, to know when you are lying to me.” She steps away from him to fluff Apolline’s pillows and adjust her blankets. “Now, reassure me of the fact that you will not let your soft heart _or_ your quick fuse hinder you in regards to keeping an eye on the wizard.”

 

Draco clenches his jaw. “I promise you, my Queen, that I have no intentions, other than those which are best for the kingdom, when it comes to Auror Potter. He is a wizard, yes, but he did not kill my mother. I shall keep that in mind.”

 

The queen takes her seat next to her daughter once more, picking up the silver brush to go through her hair again. “No, child, he did not. You may go.”

 

With one last look at the Princess Apolline, Draco turns sharply and strides from the room, the sound of Queen Marceline’s quiet singing following him out into the hallway.

 

_“À la claire fontaine m'en allant promener_

_J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle que je m'y suis baignée._

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai…”_


End file.
